


life finds a way

by Yatzuaka



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon (POV), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-05 17:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13392303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzuaka/pseuds/Yatzuaka
Summary: A stone becomes Dragon.





	life finds a way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrennette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/gifts).
  * Inspired by [a clean break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017705) by [wrennette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette). 



> I have read [wrennette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette)'s [a clean break](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13017705) like a dozen times, and I love it so much. So much that I wanted to write something for it, but every time I tried to get anything to come out, I scrapped it, because it WASN'T RIGHT. 
> 
> When I started to reread the Ship of Magic recently, it came to me: I was attacking the story from the wrong POV! And thus, this was born.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this even half as much as I enjoyed a clean break, wrennette. BTW, you're awesome.

She was a stone in a river washed smooth and round by the ceaseless current. There was awareness, but it was distant, dim. Her _Mother-Elder-Guardian_ did not call to her, did not coax her into being, and her awakening waited, and waited, and waited some more. There was no hunger, no pain, nothing but the force, the ebb and flow.

By increments too large to measure, time glides inexorably forward and still, she waits.

Somehow there is cool where there was warmth. There is unfamiliar turmoil all around, a pressing of many, too many, and none her own.

It is enough to make the spark of her retreat further and yet further until she is nearly coal -

Warmed by hands, washed by thoughts, first one then another, and yet another. It is warm again. Calm. The force breaths like breezes she has yet to know but will remember as vividly as if she'd been there as soon as she hatches. A gift of her Brood-Kin passed down one by one by one through yolk and white and shell.

One by one, cells divide.

They are voices. They do not call, yet she is locus. A stirring, like hunger, squashed inside of her then polished away with mantras. The force is with her. The force is her. The force is. 

Waiting. 

* * *

The songs will never come, but there is no denying her long-awaited quickening is upon her. 

She doesn't know how or when her shell first cracked, but she does know when to use her ridges to hasten the process. In a shockingly clear moment, there is suddenly blazing light and arresting cold. 

The wrongness is an assault on her imprinted expectations; where are the mountains, the air currents, the rivers? And yet, there is a familiarity she tastes in her nose and under her skin. 

She sings a plaintive call: _Mother-Elder-Guardian_? 

When there's no response, she does the only thing she can think of; hide in the only shrub hereabouts. It feels like she should fear this unknown, but she doesn't. Instead, she does what she has done for so long. She waits.

A Furred finds her later, and she _knows_ him. His blood tastes like the mantras that smoothed against the inside of her egg. It is easy to clamber on, to latch on to his soft skin and not-skin. He is Could-Be-Prey, but also of her, and the confusion grows apace with the ease he inspires. 

She knows when she gets an uncontrolled stream of water straight to the face and the Furred (Too-Big-to-Eat-But Tasty) saves her, that her needs will be met. He cleans her with the attention of one of her own, and while it had taken longer than strictly necessary, had found her food. 

The bond is formed, and she who is Lost-Found, she who Drifted-Through-All-Time-Nothing, accepts the impossible. 

Furred is  _Mother-Elder-Guardian._

* * *

It has been so long that her wings can block the sky, that her calls can shiver the sun. She sings the force like a blast of hot magma here on the home she was given, endlessly searching, boundlessly fascinated, profound in her very enormity. 

She is life. She is death. She is all. She is one with the force. The force is her.  

* * *

He finds her, and he smells like like old peat and sticky star dust and home. She thrills a happy rumble, her facial ridges clacking in harmony, _Mother-Elder-Guardian_. 

He coos a well-remembered greeting and his small wings - not big enough to drive him to the sky, not like hers at all - rub along her skin with the affection she remembers so well. His voice, tiny and mysterious as it is, imparts no meaning as she understands it, but they commune as they always have. Through the force she sees tiny Furred ones; small, fragile, easily broken and eaten by predators. Like she had been when she first hatched. He worries for them, it's clear. They are like her - out of place, not quite when they should be. 

She brings him to her secret, to her hearts. 

There are dozens of them. 

Eggs she's laid.

No matter how she calls they do not quicken, and her sorrow is tangible between them, his sympathy a balm she almost rejects, but for the sincerity it tastes like. 

He knows loneliness, a different flavor than hers, yes, but similar enough. She nudges the two smallest eggs, her first ones, the ones she's rubbed and sung to the most, the ones she left so much of her life inside towards him. She pictures the two Furred along the line of communication they share.

Maybe they will wash them with the force, maybe her eggs will have a chance at life in the strange, soft claws of the two young Furred.

It is with reluctance and hope that she watches her  _Mother-Elder-Guardian_ take her eggs and wrap them inside his body. 

When he leaves, she follows, soaring to the boundary of sky, a sound of desperate longing and farewell and all the lessons she will not be able to impart coming from her throat in a boom that shakes like thunder and lightning. 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I couldn't call this fic THAT without acknowledging the Goldblum. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
